


Ukrainian Cold

by theghostsofeurope (baronvonehren)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-31 23:58:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baronvonehren/pseuds/theghostsofeurope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I blink at the realization that I won't understand a word of it, but the number on the screen clearly reads "-17 C" in large, yellow letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ukrainian Cold

We are in Kiev when the heater of our hotel room goes out. It sputters as I turn it on, whirls chunkily, and lets out a groan. I slam my fist against it a couple of times as Jim drops his duffel bag on the bed. "Call the front desk," he says lazily, rubbing his hands together. I opt for visiting the front desk myself.

The hotel manager is a sleazy sort and we find out that a technician is supposed to work on the entire complex's heating system within the next week. It wouldn't have done a lick of good to pummel him for not telling us this sooner, but I contemplate it anyway.

When I get to the room, I let it out on the shitty heater instead.

Jim has shimmied down into the sheets and is shivering. When he speaks to me--which is rare right now--his teeth chatter and his breath comes in clouds. It is cold as hell. I turn on the television and flip to the news channel.

It takes me a while to find the news channel, and Jim has retreated under the covers completely, ducking his head beneath. "Nehatyvnyy̆ simnadtsyatʹ hradusiv za Tselʹsiyem," the television drones, and I blink at the realization that I won't understand a word of it, but the number on the screen clearly reads "-17 C" in large, yellow letters.

"Goddamn." I breathe smoke. "Jim, did you hear that? It's going to hit something around negative seventeen tonight."

There is a long, pregnant silence (and the sound of Ukrainian television) as Jim lies still, keeping to his warm spot in his bed. "Maybe we should switch hotels?" He knows the complications of the entire situation. No security at a new hotel. Too random--something could happen. Jim's teeth chatter in response.

I turn off the television, the set clicking before powering down.

"It's fucking cold." Jim announces from under the covers, nearly an hour later. I have the lamp beside the bed turned on. My finger pauses, lodging itself into my book to mark my place. I hear him sniffle and shift, hissing at the cold.

When he doesn't speak again, I resume reading. 

 

_On mists of idleness--to let fair things_

_Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook._

_He has his Winter too of pale misfeature_

_  
_

Jim sniffles again and I pause. "Still not asleep?" I check my wristwatch and furrow my brow. He's usually hit by the jet lag by now.

"No," he sniffles, sounding more wretched by the minute.

 

_Or else he would forego his mortal nature._

_  
_

I move to turn the page and Jim makes another sniffle. He's attempting to get my attention. I sigh and close my book, making a mental note (that will inevitably be forgotten) of the page number. He doesn't seem to have anything to say. I clear my throat. "It would be in our best interests to sleep together."

My face turns immediately red with the wording but I cannot feel the heat in my cheeks for the cold. It's fucking freezing. Jim lets out hum and then a sound of agreement, at last.

I grimace as I swing my legs over the bed, exposing myself to the cold. "Fuck."

I get up and stand by the edge of his bed. "Budge over." I say, prodding what I assume is his head. Jim snorts and obliges, and I slide into the bed. It's fucking cold, the sheets are cool and slick and it makes the hair on my legs stand straight on end. "Give me some of the blanket."

Jim quickly rips the covers up and I throw myself under them. He moves his arms to tuck them around us, trapping in our body heat and air. "Left the light on," I grunt, entirely too close to him to feel even remotely comfortable.

"Oh, how _noble_ , to worry about the environment," Jim chatters, rolling his eyes.

I ignore him. "Big spoon or little spoon?"

His breath is hot on my face, and considering the cold that should be welcome. Jim's nose is a bright red, standing out from his pale skin. It's odd, how pale he is, considering we were in South America just last week. "Hmm, little spoon." 

He greedily turns over, hands pushing down on the inside of the blanket to keep it over us. I hesitate for a moment and I get the sensation that Jim notices. Something in my stomach flutters as he pushes his back against my chest. "Your toes are freezing," I complain loudly next to his ear as he attempts to tuck his feet between my legs. 

"Yes, because I definitely was unaware." He retorts, reaching back over himself to grope for my arm. "Because it's not as if I haven't been like this for several hours now." I drape my arm around his stomach with his guidance and it feels wholly alien to me, how well we fit together and just how he's _soft_. 

Jim's got this bit around his middle that's a bit, well, _squishy_ , and it takes me entirely off guard. It's queer, as if I had assumed he was just bones or something. I'm not quite sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't flesh, not muscle and fat. It rises and falls with his every breath, like a rocking ship.

Jim lets out a sigh and in a few minutes the temperature under the blankets rises to a very agreeable one. He falls asleep first; I can tell by the breaths and his heart. I shift a little, curling up around him more naturally and soon follow.

The next morning we both awake feeling horrid. It's still freezing cold and we're still trapped beneath the blanket. Jim has to empty his fucking bladder (always does first thing in the morning) and I know he isn't willing to get up for the cold. My joints hurt and ache, and it's not from the position.

It's when Jim attempts to speak and lets out a low cough that I understand.

He sniffles and the room is quiet and I contemplate just curling up and dying because I realize the reason why Jim was so pale and cold, and honestly why sleeping with him was so nicely warm. "You fucking wanker," I want to box his ears, "you should have told me you were coming down with something."

"Fuck you too," Jim yawns and squirms, "let me out, honey; I've gotta piss."

We spend the next hour arranging for transportation back to some place actually _decent_ while Jim screeches down the line (to the best of his ability) and cancels business transactions. It's something about his pride, I think, that makes him refuse to do business with a cold.

**Author's Note:**

> The sonnet Sebastian Moran is reading is titled "The Human Seasons" by Keats.  
> (Also, you might have noticed but I am not very familiar with the Ukrainian language, so feel free to correct me! The closest I've got is one semester of college Russian!)


End file.
